


A Head Held High

by SaltCastle



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Gang Rape, Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Tail Sex, Wall Sex, Xeno, background female Hawke/Isabela - Freeform, implied impregnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCastle/pseuds/SaltCastle
Summary: Dangerous things lurk in Darktown; Hawke doesn't know whether a pride demon or a memory is worse.





	A Head Held High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonconamod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts).



> Morbane beta'ed. I'll be grateful forever!

She climbs the last steps of the stairs leading up from the lowest level of Darktown and a thought hits her like a sack of bricks, not particularly novel or unusual for her, but appropriate, considering the circumstances.

She really isn’t a fan of her fellow humans.

Stupid bastards just can’t refrain from stupidly dabbling in things they don’t know how to control and throwing sand in the gears of other people’s lives. And yes, pot, kettle, all that shit. Hawke knows her faults. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss her off when the faults of others are slowly pulling a man apart directly in her path.

And a pride demon in Darktown doesn't shock her that much! It’s just— Fellow humans, why? 

She sighs, very quietly, as its back is turned to her and she doesn’t want to attract its attention, and drops her hand to her weapon, considering her options. There’s no commotion outside of the small area the demon is currently conducting its small-scale massacre in, not a single squeak, which means it hasn’t been discovered yet. A squad of Templars won’t swoop in to save the day, guards won’t appear (unlikely as it ever is to see them in Darktown), and even Darktown’s own inhabitants, used to dealing with weird shit crawling out of nooks and crannies two feet away from where they sleep, won’t gather in numbers, armed with torches and pitchforks. Hawke will just have to make a choice.

She could try climbing back down. She’s not wearing armor and could move really quietly if she wants to. Maybe the demon won’t notice her. If it does, maybe it will let her go, deciding she’s not worth the trouble, that more people, more prey, dwell on the other side of the wall and not down the stairs.

Or she could fight. She’s not wearing armor, she doesn’t have her shield, just the short sword she carries within the city walls when she doesn’t plan on getting into trouble— Andraste's tits. She’s always been a shit planner. 

The pommel of her sword is getting warmer under her thumb. Her fingers twitch.

The demon drops bloodied scraps of the body, stilling. Hawke viciously hopes it’s the blood mage that summoned the fucker, hopes he suffered and felt every bone popping out of its socket, every limb tearing apart. The unfairness of her situation, of this whole fucking city, is choking her. She should’ve left this shithole a long time ago.

She charges, fast and silent.

The demon sweeps at her. Hawke sweeps at flies like that, offhandedly, not putting any thought behind the action. Most often she misses. 

It doesn’t miss.

Her back connects with a wall, and she slides down it and crashes onto the ground.

The demon turns to her. Its head is moving like that of a curious puppy, nose scrunching, sniffing the air. Way too many eyes for a puppy, though. Way too ugly a snout. Way, way too big a body. Fuck. It is filling the small space like a dragon fills her lair. Even the horns are similar. Dragons smell, though, or at least the one in the Bone Pit did. Of rot and dead rats in the gutter. This thing here smells of crisp mountain air. It’s a scent Hawke associates with her father and Beth and— Nope, not going there. She stands up, clutching her sword tighter, and charges again.

It goes much the same as the first time. She tries to feint, but the demon grabs her. Literally grabs her, making a loose ring with its thumb and forefinger, and lifting her high into the air. She stabs it in the hand with her sword. Its skin has a scale-like quality to it, but her blade goes in deep anyhow. Pity it makes no damage at all. Or if it does, the fucker doesn’t show it has felt any of it. "Screw you," Hawke says, struggling to pry its fingers open. "Screw you and your mother, you ugly son of a bitch."

She could be trying to pry open the Kirkwall gates with her bare hands and achieve much the same result. 

The demons lets her grapple with its fingers. Hawke gets an impression her efforts amuse it; it makes her angry, so she doubles down. The demon squeezes her. Not very hard, just enough to put pressure on her ribs and let her know she could die here, crushed to death between a finger and a thumb. It’s a sobering reminder. She ceases her struggling. Her arms hang uselessly by her sides, brushing the demon’s scaly skin and spikes and other protrusions rising out of it. Their sharp tips make her bleed. 

The demon pulls her sword out and tosses it away. Blood wells up in the wound and starts spilling out. Almost black, it mingles with Hawke's red on the demon's skin and drips in brown rivulets onto her clothes, her hands, her boots even. The air between them is heavy with the stench of blood. Hawke tastes copper and bile on her tongue. The demon shows her its teeth, bringing her closer and closer to its snout. For one panic-filled heartbeat she thinks she’s going to be eaten—and wouldn’t it be a truly glorious end to the Champion of Kirkwall—but it doesn’t tear into her flesh. Its tongue flicks out of its mouth to lick away the blood. Then it licks her, wetting her shirt from the ribs up, over her breasts and to the collar, until it touches her neck.

The sensation is—baffling.

The demon makes a sound, like earth groaning during a quake, and laps at her skin. 

Baffling. Baffling, baffling, baffling. Hawke focuses on the sound of the syllables in her head. If she lets herself think different words, more accurate, more precise words, her mind will shut down, and she’s not sure she’ll ever get it back.

So. The demon’s tongue on her, creeping under her shirt, over her clavicle and lower, rough and inhumanly long—a very baffling thing.

(It doesn’t baffle her at all. She asked Anders about it once. They were drunk and miserable after Bethany had been taken, talking shit and talking filth. Isabela asked how many of Hawke’s Fereledan friends truly did fuck their mabaris. Hawke asked Anders about mages and demons. It seemed like a logical leap from Isabela’s question. Now she knows it wasn’t.)

The tongue teases her nipple, twists around until it hardens and stiffens, and moves lower to push inside her navel. Her body jerks away from the roughness of it and from the tingle it leaves behind, but you can’t jerk away from something that grows and elongates without limits. Hawke wishes she didn’t know that particular tidbit about demon anatomy, but she does. 

Useless shit. The knowledge doesn’t help her prepare at all. 

When the tongue dips back into her navel, starts moving, twirling and swirling, and yes, fucking in and out, her back arches, pulling her shirt tight against her tits. She’s swollen and tender, and the fabric is scratchy from drying saliva, and it fucking hurts. 

(She was fucked against her will before. Her body should've gotten better at taking it already.)

It takes some time before the demon catches on that humans don’t copulate through navels. Its hand not holding Hawke starts exploring her ass and her thighs, looking for an opening. Clothes offer her an illusion of protection from the back. In the front, its tongue slips under the waistband of her breeches. She has no underwear on.

She was going to meet Isabela after her Darktown trip. She doesn't think she'll be doing it now.

The tongue is touching her from the collarbone to clit now, resting wet and massive between her breasts and between her folds. The tip is pointed, though, really slim, and she can easily convince herself it's not happening when it pushes inside her cunt.

(The cocks of the soldiers that raped her on the eve of battle at Ostagar were ruddy red and wide, as cocks of good Fereldan boys should be. They fucked her like a good Fereldan bitch, too, on all fours, although only after the officers had had their fun. For those high-born pricks she had lain on her back, looking into the starry sky as faces above her changed. Funny thing she learned that night: all cocks feel much the same inside, whether noble or common, whether fucking her from the front or from behind. She could've pretended there was just one if only she wasn't so heavy with come after the youngest squire pulled out.)

A lot of people live in Darktown; Hawke expects someone to show up in the doorway any minute now. They won't save her, of course; they'll scream and run. But they will raise the alarm, and Templar patrols in Darktown aren't a rare thing at all with Meredith cracking down on apostates. 

Good knights might even refrain from suggesting she show her gratitude on her knees, as they like to do with Lowtown folk unlucky enough to be saved by them. She's the Champion, after all, and this is a public place. She may yet escape mostly unharmed.

The tongue inside her— it's nothing. A baffling nothing. She doesn't feel it at all.

The demon grows tired of pawing at her clothed form and scratches at the back of her waistband with its claw, piercing her skin and drawing blood, a promise of hurt to come. Hawke grimaces and swings her legs with purpose to get away from it. The move bumps the tongue into her clit, but she ignores it, kicking and kicking at the air. She knows this: she survived a violation once; she can do it again. She just has to be smart about it. 

(She stripped when the captain told her to strip. She lay down, opened her legs, rolled onto her stomach, sucked, swallowed, met them thrust for thrust if they wanted her participation. Very few did. She was most grateful.)

She’ll need to get home when it’s done. She’ll need her clothes mostly intact and her body unharmed enough to walk. "Wait," she says. It may be pointless; they don’t share a language, her attacker and she. She tries anyway. "Wait! I’ll do it myself." She puts her hands on the ties of her leggings. 

Her gesture or her tone must have got her point across clear enough because the demon’s hand stills, giving her the time to slip the leggings down her hips. It takes over from there, yanking them down until they bundle at her knees. Her boots pose a problem, but the demon resolves it by tearing them off by force. Broken buckles clatter on the ground. Doesn’t matter. She can walk in her boots unbuckled. 

She gets a good view of her body when her lower half is finally exposed to the world, the demon’s tongue emerging from under the hem of her shirt like a cancer growing on her skin. It starts fucking her faster now that it can move more freely. She can’t ignore it anymore, none of it, not the jabbing motion nor saliva wetting her thighs nor the puffiness of her cunt.

The tongue slides out and crawls further back until it finds her other hole. It slips inside.

(The captain came back for seconds after his soldiers were done. He didn’t want to put his cock in her cunt which was, in his words, ruined, messy, sloppy, fucked loose, and dripping someone else’s come. He announced he would fuck her in the ass. He made her kneel and pressed on her shoulders until she put her head on the ground and pushed her ass up. He didn’t even spit on her. His thumbs, forced inside and pulling in opposite directions, stretched her out until the head of his cock could slip past her rim. The rest was almost easy, even if she felt every inch of it going in and pulling out. Biting on her wrist, she considered begging him to use his soldiers’ come to slick her up, but that would probably offend his sensibilities. So she kept quiet as he fucked her dry.)

Anders told her inhabitants of the Fade can manipulate matter and time but don’t understand either. Seems he was right. A long, long time passes before the demon’s tongue stops fucking her ass. She’s raw by then, bruised and coated with spit, dreaming of respite. 

It’s a welcome change when her back is put to the wall. 

Less so when she’s bent almost in half, legs hiked so high they end up on both sides of her head. A hand slipped under her ass supports her weight while powerful thighs pin her in place. Scales touching her cunt shift and move and open up like a chasm. That’s something new. Dear Bethany, today I was fucked by a pride demon, and the most unexpected thing happened when— Something hard and ovoid surges up from deep inside the demon’s body and latches onto her. Cock, her mind helpfully supplies in case she forgot what she was dealing with. Or close enough to a cock that it doesn’t matter if it’s not exactly that. It’s a thing for fucking, a thing that will fuck her.

It twists like a screw and pushes into her. And grows inside. 

Or no, it doesn’t grow. It blooms. The base sits solid like a fist just behind the opening of her cunt. It stretches her, but not impossibly so. It doesn’t cause her pain. But it has tendrils that crawl deeper and deeper inside her, trailing little bolts of lightning in their wake. She tingles inside, shudders outside. Shocks jump around in her lower belly as if a storm is brewing there.

The hand disappears from under her ass. She’s suspended on the cock inside her. One jerk, one too-strong shaking motion, and she slips off it and crashes her skull on the ground. Her back presses hard into the wall, hands plastered onto it with fingers spread wide. She’d grab at a spike on a demon’s skin if she could, but its stomach and thighs are mostly smooth, if very inhumanly built. 

It keeps fucking her. Not like humans fuck, but the tendrils are coiling in her like lightining, her body shaking every time a spark grazes her insides, and the base plugging her cunt keeps growing. Hawke stops being afraid of falling. If the demon stepped away from the wall right now, she’d stay with it, speared on his cock, hanging from it, her cunt gripping it like a vice. 

Her back bruises on the stone as the demon’s thighs snap up. Knobs of her spine hurt. She opens her mouth to swear or cry out, but the demon’s thumb finds it first. It pushes inside, big like a house, splitting in two on her tongue. A tendril slides down her throat, followed by lightning, followed by another tendril, by a dozen of them. Her jaw is stretched wide.

They fuck her face, stuff her full to bursting, cut off her air.

The demon’s tail slams into her ass. 

She screams. No sound gets out through the tendrils in her mouth. Maybe they feed on the noise she tries to make, on the first outward proof of her fear and disgust. Maybe she only screams in her head.

Maybe she only wanted to scream but couldn’t make her body follow even such a simple demand. 

She doesn’t feel human where the tendrils fill her. Her cunt is puffy around them, welcoming. It has molded itself around the base like a glove. It shouldn’t be able to take it; it seems greedy for more. Her mouth is greedy for the taste of the demon’s precome. The first drops have already dripped down her throat, sweet and tart, heady like wine.

The tail fucking her in the ass never pulls out. It stretches her out and fills her up and lets her forget where she is, moving in a relentless rhythm she tries to match with her hips.

It lasts and lasts, like a dream you wake up from in another dream.

She knows when the demon comes, but it’s a distant thing, like her Hightown home, impossibly far, like Isabela when she’s thinking about the sea, like Bethany in an ivory tower she never talks about, like her dead parents who loved her but not enough. It’s a shock of cold and brightness inside her throat, inside her cunt, and inside her mind. Her eyes roll and she lets herself sleep.

First time she comes to, she’s still mostly full of cock. The tendrils disappeared, from her mouth and her cunt, but the base seals her tightly, keeping the demon’s come inside. She throbs around it. The tail twitches in her ass. She groans. She can’t recognize her voice, rough and raw like a rusty armor grating on stone. The base in her expands. The tail finally pulls out, flicking across her rim. Her hips jerk and move and roll. The demon puts its hands under her ass and lets her rut against its scales until she blacks out.

Second time she comes to, a beggar is spreading her legs, shouting to his friends he’s found a cunt free to fuck. Her sword is by her head. She grabs it and thrusts it up, right into the hollow of his neck. Blood spills on her face and paints her lips red. She jumps up, kills the second guy, the third runs. Hawke puts on her leggings and boots and goes home, not bothering to clean up.

It’s a very early morning. Children sweeping the streets look at her with fear in their eyes.

She leaves a note to Bodahn that she caught a cold and will be sleeping it off. She locks herself in her bedroom. She washes her face, cunt, and ass with a cloth soaked in cold water and tries to sleep. It doesn’t come, so she lies on her bed, staring into the ceiling, ignoring knocks on the door and the smell of food wafting inside from the slit under it. 

Isabela sometimes enters her house via the window. Hawke has left it half-open. She’s not waiting, but she’s not not-waiting, either.

Isabela doesn’t come.

After midnight, Hawke slips out of her room. She steps over a tray full of cold food, runs to the cellar quiet as a ghost and comes back with a bottle of wine in each hand. She drinks herself to sleep.

She wakes up in the Fade.

"No," she says before her mind even stops processing it. "No. I’m not a mage."

A laughter, then. Inside her head, but the Fade shakes with it. She spins on her heel. The demon stands in front of her, grinning. Its eyes look more alive here.

"Mages are thieves," it hisses. Its mouth doesn’t form the words, but Hawke understands it anyway. "They take pieces of us away, lock us out. I decided I would bring something back." 

Her heart is a sparrow inside her throat. Her knees give out and she falls to the ground. To the mockery of the ground. There are no dimensions in the Fade, no up and down, no ground either, only vastness; she falls through it and keeps falling. 

The demon laughs again, scooping her in its arms. "I poured a lot of me inside you, pet. A lot of the Fade. I knotted you until it took." Phantom hands touch her stomach, slip under her clothes, pass through her skin like it’s a waterfall. She twists and turns, but they’re all around her. They stroke her from the outside and they stroke her from the inside and they turn into liquid fire filling her up and they burn her down. She arches her back and pants. The demon pants above her, fucking her. "I brought you home." A kiss to the lips like sealing a deal. A kiss to the cunt. She comes. "I made you mine."

(The captain watched her as she dressed. She willed her hands to still, to be sure on the ties of her breeches, the clasps of her jacket, the sheath of her sword. Their come was staining her underwear and the back of her throat, hidden now but sticky on her skin, bitter on her tongue. It was part of her now. He walked over and grabbed her by the jaw, tilting her head to look her in the eye. "We don’t usually tell female recruits this," he said, "but the darkspawn like dragging your lot underground." She fought her body that wanted to run. She’d taken his cock, twice. She could take his words. "They are animals that need to breed. Grey Wardens say most women don’t last even a day on their rotting cocks." He wet his lips. "But I think you would, girl." He put his other hand on her tit and squeezed. "I think you’d let them fill up all your holes, pop out little hurlock after hurlock, and live. It’s a rare gift to be such a slut. Cling to it.")


End file.
